


the thrill is gone, babe

by amarova



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Fluff & Angst, Minor Character Death, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Slushies, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Drama, Tragic Romance, Vignettes, actually it's just him, he's not dead yet lmao, strictly movie version, well it's not Bonnie and Clyde, with J.D. as psychotic boyfriend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-09 17:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10417122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarova/pseuds/amarova
Summary: Veronica was caught in the middle; didn't expect what lays ahead of her when everything she does seems to be at risqué with him—But it felt like hitting yourself into a nearby car, it's senseless.





	1. How You Smoke with Tequila, Sax and Bach

He always smells like one. His black gunslinger trench coat bears the scene of nighttime side street with city lamplights, dangerous car crash, spiraling in dead stars and rocket explosions. When he pulls her close, that scent of poisonous cigarettes can't help but to linger a little longer around her nose—that awful stench—for what she _loves_ , what she adores, as it lies on the floor beneath the window he was entering earlier—a "dreadful etiquette", he would apologize then.

He also prefers rowing a boat in the middle of the lake, but he said having her bedroom is quite very, too. It's liquors, classical music, cigarettes, their bodies lying face up on bedsheets—with no one else existing; not even the Heathers and those juvenile pricks like Ram and Kurt who are better off dead (even though she deliberately thought that _that_ sounded bitchy.).

And maybe a keg of beer in a party or vodka shots—at times when she's too depressed as a teenager and have had enough contemplation on why the _fuck_ do eagles have to fly with their wings—is all that she ever drinks, but the glass still contains liquor. She's not crazy about tequilas—it's not horrible, just for the strange aroma that she couldn't quite make out, something vegetable?

She gulped it down anyway, feeling the liquid goes down to her stomach. While at it, she wanted to ask "what's on your mind, sport", but the very thought itself made her cringe, so as she hears the violin strings on G minor, or B minor—what's the difference, she finally inquires:

"So how do you play French Suites by saxophone?"

Impressed by his intelligence and the mysterious lone wolf presence he's always bringing should've been enough (and yes, he sounded very "romantic" when he answered the stupidest question he's ever heard from the lunchtime poll), but she's never met a guy who's too cryptic—even when they're together like this—so she felt more and more drawn to him, even for the most banalities that he has.

A cigarette between his fingers (that's the picture she's always visioned on her mind) and he took a drag while suavely muttering, "Contemporarily. I don't have my sax with me, darling, it's back in the garage with other junks."

He said it as he exhales the smoke. Oh, the smoke. The extension of it scurries throughout the room, forming a dust of cloud—taking its time after rapidly blown off, like the sensation to dive head first to the sea, splashing the salty water around your body. It's cigarettes, but for her it's the way everything was when they're together. He drapes her by the shoulder, holding it in before running dramatically, hand-to-hand. She's with him, and maybe he would say to her that they could conquer the world together, but if that's what it means to be free for a while from the claws of her tyrannical cliques with aerobicized ass Heather Chandler as their (including herself) dictator—well sure, she'd agree easily. And it's addictive, with a hint of unintended persuasiveness—and even _she_ couldn't see any warning sign ahead, so no one is really at fault, right?

(Or at least, that's what she has hoped for. She could still hope, but it won't make much different anyway.)


	2. The Wolf Who Cried

She can't get the point of writing gay pact suicide notes if they're going to shoot them with blanks. It'll be like earning two huge teddy bears as a laughingstock prize in one of those carnivals, what's there to be prepared for?

J.D. had probably thought it over. He casually loaded the bullets as if his SIG Sauer was only a water gun. And she never did pay attention closely to what the French teacher was saying in class—except for pâté and an occasional "Je m'apelle Veronica"—so the introductory towards German is a nice change, per se.

It struck her as endearing, his accent. While usually his voice isn't husky—it was always low, resonantly low (and sometimes she notices the tone becoming a little squeaky when he's under-pressured), but with this new revelation that he had offered her, his vocal cords took its intensity deeper in opacity—even though he himself could quickly transform into a rapid-fire speaker too when he said the bullets don't work on small animals. What about these bullets, won't J.F.K. get assassinated twice?

But the about-to-conduct fake suicides of the biggest scumbags in Westerburg is too thrilling for her to give a damn about whatever Germany has with their bullets. So here they are, in bed, stealing kisses from one and another, the passionate heat crawls slowly under their skeletons—and she wanted to make love (she doesn't know if he wanted that too at the moment) but the cold blow of the wind was piercing and it made them giddy with excitement of doing something that has no boundaries, not when they weren't exactly devoted to God or other sacred beliefs, so resisting the temptation is an alternative choice— _but who could have hair as dark as he and it fits perfectly in my arms_ —

And what they were having was going so well—if she could forget about Heather Chandler for a while—she wouldn't want to ruin it by saying things like people in a committed relationship would usually say (so cheesy, so corny that she might actually considering to submit an obituary for herself in the newspaper):

"I could love you."

She's aware that he didn't ask for that.

And half of the time, she's always right. It's not a psychic thing—she just happened to know, out of routine. It was always easy with her friends (if bulimia is so '86, should '88 be suicides?) or parents (condemned to be idiot for spy crap and Sterling) because she spends too much time nodding along with them when what they're actually doing is nothing quizzical. As for J.D., though, she wasn't sure enough (is his attendance perfect in American History? Who gives a shit.). She was never sure.

His torso is still on top of her and the kiss where he had left off felt lukewarm from her lips; down to her neck, trailing her collarbones. He's motionless. She was afraid of making him to leave the bed (if he laughed mockingly at that, she'll spit on him because it ought to be true) but him burying his head under her chest told her not to worry, even though she doesn't understand why would he be whispering "Ich lüge" over and over like a broken vinyl record.

She thought she had heard something else, something more of remorse or maybe forlorn and it could be anything at all but right now she only wanted him to say her name instead,

And her mama didn't name her after something that sounds like a child's cry.

(When it's all over, she thought back to the night before they committed their second murder. It kind of made sense; it's supposed to.)


	3. Animal Instincts

The only normal thing she should do—fuck it, that anyone should do—is to scream on top of their lungs. The least she's done until now is trembling in fear while the autumn wind penetrates her skin, and it's killing her, it's killing her, _it's killing her_ ,albeit this is not the first time she's witnessed a dead body. A dead body that she killed, that's how ironic the situation now with fucking "these are Ich lüge bullets" Clyde!

No one could miss the gaping hole— _with blood_ —from the quarterback and the linebacker's chests. She didn't do it, it was animal instincts. Ram looked bleeding and unconscious—you wish, Veronica; he _is_ bleeding and dead. Kurt is left-handedly "unfortunate", that son of a bitch dared to joke at times like this.

It all seemed too bad to be true. She had to act fast, though, because that gunshot was clearly not a bird's chirping. After queasily positioning the revolver in Kurt Kelly's right hand (for God's sake, what makes a good pun anymore), her eyes caught a glimpse of the feminine bag that were stuffed with Joan Crawford's postcard, Stud Puppy issue, Perrier water—who cares if they're gay, they're gay and dead!

Her mind blurred, becoming vague for what's right and wrong— _is this a dream or just a cruel joke, am I on MTV_?—as she turned towards her partner-in-crime with an inexplicable expression. No, that intrigue belongs to him, a very quaint one which she tries so hard to figure out what his face is really showing; and ten out of ten, she's sure as hell it must be something ominous.

He doesn't seem to be bothered anyway—not from her prying horror, not because there are nothing in the woods besides two bodies and bushes, not for anything. But he did look at her and that trademark smirk begins to curl again, eerily handsome on his face—and baby, oh my baby, it hissed like a snake:

"Now dearest, tell me if this is not a wonderful sight to you."

(It's definitely not, but she also can not believe that she thought it was fairly seductive.)


	4. Oh, She Was Rather Blue

They were in her father's car. Warm sunlight rays with refreshing morning air failed to wake her up, the blasting Metallica from the beside car in the parking lot had done a better job.

Head dizzy, tongue coarse from dry mouth and acidity, she groggily tightens the blue blazer around her torso. It doesn't take much to move her joints when the only sleep she could get was three hours long, and criminal at hearts like them—well, maybe just a thunderstruck Veronica who's only tagging along—don't need sleep tights or sweet dreams to coax out. She didn't have to be taken aback at all when the punch inside her dreams turned into a _very_ blue liquid drainer.

She recognizes the subtle groan emanating from her current boyfriend—no, the Clyde of my life—come to think of it, a possible serial killer? Even if that nickname is too strong, she couldn't divert her mind out of those shoot-and-run madness the night before. It's there, replaying the scene gradually like when you watched a horror movie as a kid and the ghost's spooky face kept haunting you for weeks. Chasing you in the darkness.

But this came out a little too mild. It seems okay, not because they pretended to grotesquely make out so that the police won't get them, but it is, in fact seemed like nothing could go on any worse than that. It dawned on her that she was playing God by shooting Ram, or Kurt, or whoever J.D. told her to—with her bare hands. She was the deer in the headlights; pulling the trigger, coloring herself stoked.

What she needed now is a bottle of vodka. She should bring hangover-in-advance alcohols if they were going to slaughter some "pigs" (for the euphemism) anytime soon. And as a secondhand smoker, she's surprised to even want a smoke while the sun is still out there, gleefully shining. Her hand creeps up to the inside pocket of J.D.'s gunslinger trench coat—making him jolt, wide awake from the touch, and she flinched slightly because his grip wasn't loose enough. Not that it mattered.

She adhered the cigarette's paper in between her lips. What made him jerk suddenly? Was it the sense of threat; perhaps a momentary reflex, or he might just be—for once in a while—scared _shitless_? If he's always so startled whenever someone tries to wake him up, then she doesn't know what to do better: strangle or kiss him gently.

Her lips was sticky because the cigarette had stayed there long enough with her saliva, being unlighted. The smell of tobacco and just about his body—the sweat, the gunpowder, even her rosy lipstick mark was piercing through her nose effectively. It made the digested french fries with ketchup inside her stomach turns to vomit.

"Shit. We killed them. That's batshit crazy."

He stretched his long arms and yawned, still mouthing the cigarette. "Yeah we did, honey. Well, at least we've done it _nicely_... Forgot the ribbons, though."

She's taking everything back. It doesn't seem very okay, not even the slightest okay imaginable. What she had done these past few months with this—so far, the grimiest of James Dean-esque guy, was nothing but cruelly goofing around with the hypocrisy of high school society by deciding to kill the people who were at the top of the food chains. That's what she could sum up from their Mishaps of Teenagers they've executed. But don't you want to admit it, Veronica, that he's doing those things (mostly) because he wanted to recreate the society—only however major that determination is, he still sees right through you. Those "accidental" homicides were meant to convince you: this is what you wanted. _You want them dead, dead and begone.  
_

And it stings, both the car lighter and her distracted thoughts. He could've kissed it with his lips, not with his cigarette butt—but she didn't wish for it. True, she had wanted to set her hands on fire, just to experience what its like; does it burn, will it turn to flame?

"I didn't want them dead."

"You did too."

There's no use in chanting "Mary Had a Little Lamb" all the while hiding her ears. The quarrel happened for roughly a minute and a half after she was tired singing the chorus repeatedly. But the lighter is still on and under the merciless heat wave, she dreaded school, she dreaded herself, and she had wondered if J.D. could buy popcorns to watch _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_ instead—because why bother killing people when you can do absolutely nothing in the cinema?

The thought is easy, she could start the engine and go to the nearest theater—not bothering with Ms. Fleming's-fucked-up-way of celebrating the dead, one after the other. She had had enough of that.

Had she? Although she was eager to escape, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Hell, she couldn't bring herself to even get out of the car. So the car honks, as if trapped in some New York City-boroughs traffic, or a festive New Year's eve. It distresses her—calmingly—and should suppress the dilemma for now.

Not for long, apparently.

"Veronica, stop it. We did it, Veronica, what did you expect?!"

Then she will hate herself more than anything (oh, the agony), more than this so-called rebel with hands so violent but not to be sentimental as fuck: they were warm, too. And it shook her shoulders to the very core, as if he was about to give her a damn therapy when every psychiatrists in the States couldn't even cure him. It's not like he needed help, but she realizes that this isn't what it is for two people jumping in romantic escapades. At all.

She doesn't think crying solves anything, so she didn't cry. But she did think she was crazy—only when together with him—and it's even more crazier to like it. When he calls out her name impatiently and she isn't exhausted to look him in his terrible eyes, she sees him too. He pulls out a strand of her wavy, messy black hair and didn't make her pretty, but at least she would be when he was barely conscious. And for fuck's sake, she'd hate it for them to be weepy teenagers, so she concluded that this wasn't love. It kind of relieves her; maybe that's what she needs.

 (It didn't. And it wasn't, still.)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) My first language isn't English so I apologize for the confusing usage of verbs, grammars, tenses, or anything.  
> 2) Don't worry, I can take criticism.  
> 3) Thanks for reading. Love ya too.


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